Are You Careful What You Pray for?

Lately, I’ve been thinking about something that happened when I was a kid.

When I was in fourth grade, we lived in a house that had a little creek that ran behind it. My parents knew it was in a flood plain, but we were just renting and I guess they decided it was worth the gamble. After a long day of relentless rain, that creek started to rise and rise.

I remember praying that day, praying that it would flood.

And flood it did. We had to move all of our water-logged belongings into a much smaller, cramped rent house, and as you can imagine, there were months of headaches and stress in dealing with insurance and losses.

I don’t know why I prayed that it would flood. Maybe so we would be out of school for a few days? Because it sounded romantic and exciting? Because I was a little kid and I just had no idea?

Years later, I sheepishly told my parents that I knew the reason we went through that flood; confessed to them that it was all my fault. My parents were incredulous that for years, I had carried the guilt of believing that my child-like faith and prayer had caused an entire neighborhood to flood. It was a strangely formative moment in my spiritual history though. Of course, as an adult I view the whole scenario differently, but even still, there is this tiny voice within that whispers:

“be careful what you pray for – it just might come true.” (tweet this)

It is from this frame of reference that I find myself most days this close to whispering “God, please let me be put on bedrest.”

Which is the craziest thing, I know. And I know that those of you who have actually been on serious bedrest would like to smack me right in the face for that. I know that bedrest is no joke – that it disrupts family life and marriage and community and that it’s frustrating and boring and no fun. I know it would be no stretch for you to see me as an impulsive child who has no idea what she is praying for. I know, I know, I know.

Every week, I feel the physical toll more and more. Though I wake up in the morning feeling fantastic and ready to take on the world, by the end of the day, I am completely toast. Achy joints and searing back pain have me reduced to shuffling around the house, and then I crawl into bed where I cannot get comfortable for the life of me and it takes monumental effort just to roll from one side to the other.

And so, yes. Part of me wants a doctor to get firm with me and say, “You really should be in bed most of the time, you know.” Because without a firm order to do so, I just cannot do it.

I feel like if I can still walk the girls to and from school, I should.

If I can still do basic housekeeping, I should.

If I can still haul laundry up and down the stairs, I should. Because surely if I shouldn’t be doing those things, it would be my body and not a doctor that would tell me. Right?